When Driving Lost Its Soul

By someone who still hears the engine even after it's off.

There was a time when a car wasn't just something you used. It was something you felt. It wasn't built to impress your neighbors or sync with your phone. It was built to take you somewhere and make damn sure you remembered the ride.

I don't care how shiny or fast the new ones are. You sit in them and you feel... nothing. It's all screens and silence. No pulse. No fight. No soul.

Back then, when something went wrong with your car, you didn't get an error message you got a sound. A knock. A rattle. Something subtle. You'd kill the engine, lean in, and listen. You learned to read your car like it was breathing. You didn't need a manual just patience, tools, and a little respect.

The first time I changed my own brake pads, I messed it up. Left a bolt a little too loose. Learned that lesson quick. But you know what? That's how you build a relationship not just with your car, but with yourself. Mistakes. Fixes. Progress. You earn the drive.

Now? You so much as scuff the bumper of an electric car, and the whole system has a panic attack. Sensors trip. The software freezes. Suddenly, you need a tow truck and a diagnostic specialist because your car got a scratch. One wrong tap, and it turns into a paperweight with a $40,000 battery.

It's like we've traded real cars for glass dolls. Fast ones, sure. But fragile. You don't fix them you wait for someone with a laptop to tell you it's okay to drive again.

People say this is the future. Maybe. But I'm not so sure it's one I want to be part of.

See, I remember standing in a garage with my sleeves rolled up, knuckles bleeding a little, music playing in the background. Grease under my nails. A cold drink nearby. Hours spent getting it right, just to hear the engine roar again. That sound rough, raw, alive wasn't just noise. It was earned.

There's a kind of honesty in a petrol car. No filters. No tricks. You turn the key, and it either fires up or it doesn't. If it stalls, it's not a glitch it's a challenge. And you rise to meet it.

You can't replicate that with quiet motors and predictive AI. Driving used to be about connection. You and the machine. The road. The weather. Everything mattered. Your timing. Your touch. The weight in your right foot. You learned to feel it all.

Now people talk about “driving experience” like it's an app. Press a button, adjust a setting, let the computer decide. It's clean, it's controlled and it's completely disconnected.

The new cars don't want you to drive. They want you to observe. Stay in your lane. Keep your hands off the wheel. Trust the system. Let the car make choices for you.

But where's the joy in that?

Where's the satisfaction of nailing a downshift, or taking a curve just right? Of pulling over, heart pounding, knowing you were the one in control? Not a chip. Not a script. You.

I don't hate electric cars. I get it. They're quick. They're quiet. They're part of what's next. But if we lose the heart of driving in the process the noise, the mess, the feeling then we've lost something we'll never get back.

Because driving isn't just about movement. It's about emotion. Memory. Connection.

I've had drives I'll never forget. Not because of where I went but because of how I got there. The smell of fuel on my jacket. The way the tires hummed on the road. The grin I couldn't wipe off my face after a perfect run. You don't get that from a battery reading 100%.

You get that from soul. And that's something no update can download.

So yeah, maybe I'm old-school. Maybe I'm stubborn. But I still believe a car should make your heart race, not just your screen glow. And when I turn the key, I want to hear something real.

Even if it growls.

Even if it leaks.

Even if it breaks down now and then.

Because that's what makes it mine.